"And yet it all came to nothing in the end."

"Saints bear witness, Scarlet, that's the naked bleeding heart of it, is it not? We dared much and risked more to save King Gruffydd's worthless neck," Tuck said, his voice rising with the force of his indignation. "And we succeeded! Beyond all hope of success, we succeeded. But that selfish sot refused to help. After we saved his life, by Peter's beard, that rascal of a king would not lend so much as a single sausage to our aid." He shook his head in weary commiseration. "Poor Bran… that his own kinsman would use him so ill-it's a wicked betrayal, that's what it is."

"Raw as a wound from a rusty blade." He considered this for a moment. "So that's the grit in his gizzard-our Bran knows we're on our own now," concluded Scarlet gloomily. "Aye, we're alone in this, and that's shame and pity enough to make man, woman, horse, or dog weep."

"Never say it," Tuck rebuked gently. "We are not alone-for the Lord of Hosts is on our side and stretches out His mighty arm against our enemies." The little friar smiled, his round face beaming simple good pleasure at the thought. "If the Almighty stands with us, who can stand against us, aye?" Tuck prodded Scarlet in the chest with a stubby finger. "Just you answer me that, boyo. Who can stand against us?"

The friar had a point, Scarlet confessed, that no one could stand against God-then added, "But there does seem no end o' folk that'll try."

The Grellon resumed the task of accumulating what provisions they could-meat from the hunt, grain and beans from the raid, tending the turnips in the field, making cheese from the milk of their two cows-preserving all they could and storing it up against the days of want that were surely coming.

Bran turned his attention to the other matter weighing on his mind. With everyone else already occupied, he called Scarlet and Tuck to him and announced, "Put on your riding boots. We're going to find Merian-and while we're at it, we'll see if we can convince King Cadwgan to lend some of his men to aid us."

"This is what Merian has been arguing all this while," Tuck pointed out.

"Aye, it is," Bran conceded. "I was against it at first, I confess, but our feet are in the flame now and we have no other choice. Maybe Merian is right-maybe her family will help where mine would not. Lord Cadwgan holds no kindly feelings towards me, God knows, but she's had a few days with him; I have to know whether she's been able to soften her father's opinion and persuade him. Pray she has, friends-it's our last hope." He spun on his heel and started away at once. "Ready the horses," he called over his shoulder. "We have only this day."

"It seems his disappointment has passed," said Scarlet. "And we're for a ride through lands filled with vengeful Ffreinc."

"Lord have mercy." Tuck sighed. "The last thing I need is to spend more time jouncing around on horseback. Still, if we can convince Cadwgan to help us, it will be worth another saddle sore."

"So now, if the Ffreinc catch us rambling abroad in plain daylight," warned Scarlet, "saddle sores will be least of all your earthly worries, friend friar."

Arriving just after midday, the three riders paused to observe King Cadwgan's stronghold from a distance. All appeared peaceable and quiet on the low hill and surrounding countryside. There were folk working in the fields to the west and south of the fortress, and a few men and dogs moving cattle to another pasture for grazing. "Seems friendly enough from here," remarked Scarlet. "Any Ffreinc around, d'you reckon?"

"Possibly," answered Bran. "You never can tell-Cadwgan is client king to Baron Neufmarche."

"Same as tried to kill you?" wondered Scarlet.

"One and the same. I made the mistake of asking Neufmarche for help, and thought he might behave honourably," replied Bran. "It is not a mistake I shall make a second time."

"A bad business, that," mused Tuck. "It is a very miracle Cadwgan has survived this long under the baron's heavy thumb."

"You know him?" asked Scarlet.

"Aye, I do-we're not the best of friends, mind, but I know him when I see him-for all I've lived in the shadow of Hereford castle for many years."

"That is why I am sending you on ahead," said Bran.

"Me!"

"I dare not show my face within those walls until you have seen how things sit with the king."

"You want me to go in there alone?" Tuck said.

"Who better to spy out the lay of the land?" said Bran. "No one up there has ever seen you," he pointed out. "To the good folk of Caer Rhodl you will simply be who you are-a wandering mendicant priest. You've nothing to fear."

"Then why do I feel like Daniel sent into the lions' lair?"

He made to urge his mount forward, but Bran took hold of the bridle strap and pulled him up. "On foot."

"I have to walk?"

"Wandering mendicant priests do not ride fine horses."

"Fine horses, my fat arse." Tuck rolled his eyes and puffed out his cheeks. "You call these plodders we ride 'fine'?" Complaining, he squirmed down from his mount, landing hard on the path below.

"That grove of beeches," said Bran, pointing a little way down the track the way they had come. "We'll wait for you there."

"What do you want me to tell Cadwgan?" Tuck asked, untying the loop that held his staff alongside the saddle.

"Tell him anything you like," said Bran. "Only find out if it is safe for me to come up there and speak to him. And find out what has become of Merian."

Tuck beetled off on his bowed legs while Bran and Will rode back to wait in the grove. Upon reaching the foot of the fortress mound, Tuck worked his way along the rising, switchback path towards the entrance. The thought-the fervent hope-of cool dark ale awaiting him in a welcome cup sprang up, bringing the water to his thirsty mouth. By the time he reached the gate atop the long ramp, he was panting with anticipation. A word with the gatekeeper brought the desired result, and he was quickly admitted and directed to the cookhouse.

"Bless you, my son," said Tuck. "May God be good to you."

At the cookhouse, he begged a bite to eat and a cup of something to drink, and found the kitchener most obliging. "Come in, Friar, and be welcome," said the woman who served the king and his household as master cook. "Sit you down, and I'll soon set a dish or two before you."

"And if you have a little ale," suggested Tuck lightly, "I would dearly love to wash the dust of the road from my mouth."

"That you shall have," replied the cook-so amiably that Tuck remembered all over again how well he was so often received in the houses of the great lords. For however high and mighty the lord might be-with his own priests or those nearby to attend him as he pleased-his vassals and servants were usually more than glad to receive a priest of their own class. She busied herself in the next room and returned with a leather cannikin dripping with foam. "Here," she said, passing the vessel to Tuck, "get some of this inside you and slay the nasty dragon o' thirst."

Tuck seized the container with both hands and brought it to his face. He drank deep, savouring the cool, sweet liquid as it filled his mouth and flowed over his tongue and down his chin. "Bless you," he sighed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "I was that parched."

"Now, then," said the master cook, "just enjoy your cup. I won't be a moment."

The cook left the kitchen for the larder, and Tuck sat on his stool, elbows on the board, sipping the good dark ale. In a moment, a young woman came in with a wedge of cheese on a wooden plate. "Cook said to give you this while you wait," said the serving maid.

"Thank you, my child," replied Tuck, taking the plate from her hand.

"If you please, Friar," she said, "I have a sore foot." She looked at him doubtfully. "Would you know of a cure or blessing?"